Page 9

Sandy

Peregrine Hind, ex-soldier, present-day kidnapper, and Terror of the Queen’s Roads, snored. Rather adorably.

Sandy looked up at the man whose chest he was currently using as a pillow and couldn’t help the grin on his face. He’d never fucked like that, not once. Oh sure, he’d tried every position and sex act under the sun, but never had a partner allowed the use of their body for Sandy’s pleasure. Never had a partner waited patiently while Sandy learned what felt good, what he wanted, and then waited even more patiently as Sandy chased down a cataclysm that was more potent for the time it took to seek it out. Pleasure at Oxford—and then in the Second Kingdom once Sandy had been initiated at the age of twenty-one—had been a game, and the rules of the game were simple: if one cared too much, then one lost.

So he’d pretended not to care. He’d pretended that he was as jaded as the rest, because the alternative was either to abstain altogether or to take the way other people took—not without consent necessarily, but without concern—and he couldn’t make himself do that. Perhaps it was the influence of the Foscourts, or maybe the memories of his own parents’ selfishness, but he found he couldn’t use someone for pleasure unless he knew the using was at least mutual. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the mutual using; he’d enjoyed it plenty! But tonight had been like discovering a new room in a house he’d always known, or a new chapter in his favorite book.

It had been a gift.

And wonder of wonders, he’d also somehow made this highwayman smile—and laugh . He’d seen the heat and the affection sparkling in Peregrine’s silver eyes, and it had been an epiphany, a vision. He doubted Peregrine Hind would ever be a joyful man—or even an easy one—but seeing the gradual thawing of the highwayman for him , for Sandy Dartham, was powerfully alluring, to say the least.

Sandy watched Peregrine sleep for a few more minutes, enjoying the way those stern features softened in repose—enjoying how, even in sleep, Peregrine’s arm clasped Sandy tightly to him. It was a possessive gesture, dominant and greedy, and Sandy loved how it felt so much that he could have stayed nestled there for the rest of the month. But when his stomach started growling with hunger, he slipped from the bed to hunt down something to eat.

The others still hadn’t returned from their attempt to rob the duchess, and so Sandy padded out in his breeches and nothing else, shivering a little at the cool air of the sanctuary after being curled against a warm thief for so long. He poked around the table, tearing off a piece of bread and chewing on it as he wondered how the other robbers were getting on with Judith and how Judith was faring. She was a cruel woman—she and Reginald were very well matched in that respect—but she had been doing poorly when they’d stayed over in Exeter during their trip from London, and Sandy had felt bad for her. There was nothing worse than traveling while sick, and no cure for it except to get home as fast as possible; he’d even arranged for an extra coach so that she and her maid could ride in more comfort without him crowding the seat.

Still eating his bread, Sandy wandered over to the table where Peregrine sometimes sat to do his work. Funny that robbery had the same endless stacks of paper running a dukedom had. Some of it must have been correspondences, Sandy supposed, with fences and innkeepers like the one in Exeter who’d informed the band about the duchess. He unfolded the paper on top, more out of idle curiosity than anything else.

And then.

And then he saw.

duke to pay one thousand in coin.

arrange place for payment and handing over the lord alexander?

post response by dawn tomorrow.

-x

Sandy sat in the chair, stunned. Not surprised , certainly, he’d known that Reginald would ransom him—although one thousand pounds was so far beneath what Sandy had estimated his own worth to be that he was a little offended—but he supposed he hadn’t considered the ransoming would happen this quickly. He’d thought that he’d have more time to escape, or to woo his freedom from his captor, or...

Or more time to stare into your captor’s exquisite silver eyes while he fucks you into a bone-shaking climax.

Sandy stared at the note, his mind twisted up around his thoughts, his chest feeling all twisted up too. He’d somehow forgotten what it had felt like to be on his knees, watching Peregrine’s finger curl over the trigger of a pistol. He’d forgotten that he had to escape, and escape quickly, because Peregrine was planning to kill him the moment Reginald handed over the ransom.

He’d forgotten because Peregrine made it impossible to remember.

Sandy swore at himself as he got to his feet. He knew better than to let a pretty face distract him—he knew because ordinarily, he was the pretty face doing the distracting. And that Peregrine’s face wasn’t pretty was beyond the point. He was lovely the same way the moors and hills around Far Hope were lovely, with a kind of lonely, elemental beauty. He fucked Sandy like Sandy had never been fucked before—not as a convenient playmate or as the means to an end, but like Sandy was the end itself. Like Sandy mattered .

And maybe it wasn’t the beauty or the pleasure that had so arrested Sandy, but Peregrine’s unflinching wholeness. Peregrine was, simply, honestly, grimly himself.

That, too, reminded Sandy of the hills around his childhood home. But that unflinching wholeness was the same reason Sandy needed to leave. Because Peregrine had never hidden that he was after revenge and revenge alone, and if Sandy had secretly hoped that his dimples and bed-play would endear the highwayman to him—at least enough to buy him his life—then it was time he admitted the enterprise had been a failure. Peregrine had said nothing about keeping him alive after the ransom, hadn’t betrayed even a sliver of willingness to do so. His wordlessness in the face of this note, which he’d so obviously seen, proved it to Sandy.

His death was still part of the plan.

Sandy looked at the note again, suddenly feeling like an invisible hourglass had been turned over. Reginald could be mustering the money for the ransom right now; in fact, Sandy couldn’t even be sure of when the highwayman had received the note. For all he knew, Peregrine had already arranged the ransom exchange, and Sandy was going to die tomorrow or the day after.

The reverie of being tied up and ravished into boneless pleasure was over. The cold truth had come to burn it away.

He had to run.

Now.

He set the note back where he found it, and he then went to the door of the sacristy to see if Peregrine was still soundly asleep.

He was, flat on his back and snoring softly, the sheets caught around his hips and one muscled thigh partially exposed. His lips were parted ever so slightly, his long eyelashes on his cheeks, his hair everywhere on the pillow. One arm rested exactly as it had been when Sandy had been snuggled next to him—as if, even while asleep, Peregrine was waiting for Sandy to return to bed.

Walking away from the man who was going to kill him was like being pressed with stones. Sandy could barely breathe as he did it, and each breath hurt something deep inside his chest as he dragged it in and then released it. He struggled to keep his inhales and exhales quiet as he crept to the corridor that led to the former monks’ cells. Peregrine’s was easy to find—it had only the essential things inside it, while the others were piled with finery and spoils. Sandy slipped inside.

He had grown up in this corner of Devonshire and knew quite well how forbidding any flight through it would be, which is why he didn’t feel too guilty for taking Peregrine’s extra pair of boots and a thick coat. From the sanctuary, he also took a small satchel with a flagon of water and some bread, a tinderbox, and then a wide-brimmed hat which looked like a relic from the Civil War.

Sandy considered stealing a horse, but the moment he approached the stables, there was a good deal of snorting and stomping and neighing, and he had the sudden terror the noise would wake Peregrine and scuttle his escape before he’d gotten to the lane leading out from the priory.

After taking an unlit torch from just inside the stable entrance, he backed away from the stables and then walked as quietly as he could through the dark yard to the lane. The moon was close to full, but clouds drifted over it now and again, and the world was reduced to rivers and pools of shadow. But Sandy wouldn’t light the torch until he was very far from the priory, not if he could help it.

He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting Peregrine to be charging behind him on one of those noisy horses Sandy had been too timid to steal, but he never was. No one else was on the lane either, and when the lane joined to a slightly wider road, Sandy still had the route to himself—along with the occasional wild pony grazing nearby, which shuffled off whenever he got close.

Sandy breathed with relief as he turned onto the main thoroughfare, which was unoccupied but perhaps riskier, given its more exposed vantages. But it had the important benefit of being somewhat familiar. If that was the bridge he thought it was...and yes, if that was his favorite stone circle poking its teeth up into the moonlit sky...then he knew where he was. More importantly, he was perhaps only a few hours’ hard walking from Far Hope. From safety.

So why didn’t he feel relieved?

Because you’re not there yet , Sandy told himself firmly. It couldn’t be because he was regretting his flight away from Peregrine. It couldn’t be because he missed Peregrine and being Peregrine’s captive plaything. Sandy had grown up at Far Hope; he was a fully initiated citizen of the Second Kingdom, and he knew the difference between playing and real life.

He and Peregrine hadn’t been playing a game of captivity. It had been real.

Unfortunately, everything else had been real too.

Ignoring the unhappiness that built and built inside him like a wave refusing to crest, Sandy marched on, trotting as fast as he could through the more visible areas of the road, going carefully through the hills and shadowy combes. By his reckoning, Peregrine’s friends would be hunting Judith’s coach some miles east of here, but he still couldn’t take the chance of being found. And it was hardly like Peregrine Hind and his gang were the only thieves in Devonshire. While these moors were too remote and poorly traveled to attract the notice of most robbers, who could ever be sure? There was no point in escaping Peregrine only to die at the hands of someone else—someone who wouldn’t even have moonlight eyes to soothe the unpleasantness of being murdered.

Ignoring the ache in his feet and the chill in his fingers, Sandy pressed on as fast as he could.

He thought he might only be an hour away from Far Hope when he heard it.

Thunder. Thunder when he could look up and see the moon through the thin clouds, and the stars between them.

Someone was on the road and traveling fast.

Sandy reacted as quickly as he could, darting past a boulder and ducking, praying that the shadows would hide him, praying that it was only an ordinary traveler cantering down the road.

But of course, it was no ordinary traveler. When Sandy dared a peep over the edge of the boulder, he saw the huge black horse and the tall frame of Peregrine Hind. He had dropped down as quickly as he could, but when he heard the horse slowing as it approached, he knew he’d been sighted.

Peregrine had found him.

With a bolt of panic, Sandy surged to his feet and attempted to plunge into the murky cut of a nearby brook, but it was no use. A cold hand clamped around his wrist and yanked him back, and then Sandy was pulled into a hard body, a hand coming tight on his jaw to tilt Sandy’s face up to his pursuer’s. The hat toppled off his head and fell behind him and was immediately forgotten.

“You can get on the horse willingly,” Peregrine said, his voice shaking a little. “Or I can throw you over the saddle and walk you back. Which do you prefer?”

The moonlight was coming from behind Peregrine, and so Sandy couldn’t read his expression, or even his eyes, which were no more than glimmers in the dark. But he could sense an implacable fury rolling off the highwayman in waves; he could hear the dangerous tremble in Peregrine’s voice.

Sandy tried to think like he was playing a game of cards, like he was examining his own hand and reading the tells of the other players at the table. Except in this case, he couldn’t bow out of a game gracefully if his cards were too poor to play. He could only keep betting and bluffing.

Or he could cheat.

Yes. He could cheat.

Sandy pulled away and started walking toward the horse, waiting by the saddle as Peregrine followed and gave him a look full of things Sandy couldn’t properly parse. It was too dark. Peregrine mounted the horse easily, and then just as easily helped Sandy up behind him, settling Sandy onto the horse’s back behind the saddle.

Peregrine turned his head and commanded, “Hold on,” and then after Sandy slid his hands around Peregrine’s waist, Peregrine urged the horse into a careful walk.

Sandy was already trying to decide how he’d cheat his way to freedom. Would he act contrite and attempt to elicit arousal or pity? Was he strong enough to hurt Peregrine or push him off the horse? Could he find a way to send word to Reginald once he got back to the priory—or maybe make sure the messenger got a forged note, telling Reginald that the exchange was no longer happening?

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the clapper bridge until they were clattering over it. A bridge that was very decidedly not on the way to the hideout.

“Wait,” Sandy said after a moment. “We’re not going back to the priory.”

“Not tonight,” Peregrine said. “A storm is moving in. It’ll catch us before we make it back.”

“So you’re taking us deeper into the moors?” Sandy asked in a doubtful voice.

“No,” came the low response. “There’s shelter nearby.”

Sandy sincerely doubted it, since they were still along the main road, and he knew there was nothing for another few miles until they reached the little parish village belonging to Far Hope. But Peregrine surprised him, and, after a mile or so, they turned onto a narrow lane bordered by low stone fences.

Though the light was still faint, Sandy could see the humps of white dotting the fields as they passed.

Sheep. Many of them.